Part 4 Book 13 Chapter 3 The Extreme Edge

Marius had reached the Halles.

There everything was still calmer, more obscure and more motionless than in the neighboring streets. One would have said that the glacial peace of the sepulchre had sprung forth from the earth and had spread over the heavens.

Nevertheless, a red glow brought out against this black background the lofty roofs of the houses which barred the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the Saint-Eustache side. It was the reflection of the torch which was burning in the Corinthe barricade. Marius directed his steps towards that red light. It had drawn him to the Marche-aux-Poirees, and he caught a glimpse of the dark mouth of the Rue des Precheurs. He entered it. The insurgents' sentinel, who was guarding the other end, did not see him. He felt that he was very close to that which he had come in search of, and he walked on tiptoe. In this manner he reached the elbow of that short section of the Rue Mondetour which was, as the reader will remember, the only communication which Enjolras had preserved with the outside world. At the corner of the last house, on his left, he thrust his head forward, and looked into the fragment of the Rue Mondetour.

A little beyond the angle of the lane and the Rue de la Chanvrerie which cast a broad curtain of shadow, in which he was himself engulfed, he perceived some light on the pavement, a bit of the wine-shop, and beyond, a flickering lamp within a sort of shapeless wall, and men crouching down with guns on their knees. All this was ten fathoms distant from him. It was the interior of the barricade.

The houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed the rest of the wine-shop, the large barricade, and the flag from him.

Marius had but a step more to take.

Then the unhappy young man seated himself on a post, folded his arms, and fell to thinking about his father.

He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy, who had been so proud a soldier, who had guarded the frontier of France under the Republic, and had touched the frontier of Asia under Napoleon, who had beheld Genoa, Alexandria, Milan, Turin, Madrid, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Moscow, who had left on all the victorious battle-fields of Europe drops of that same blood, which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown gray before his time in discipline and command, who had lived with his sword-belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade blackened with powder, his brow furrowed with his helmet, in barracks, in camp, in the bivouac, in ambulances, and who, at the expiration of twenty years, had returned from the great wars with a scarred cheek, a smiling countenance, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having done everything for France and nothing against her.

He said to himself that his day had also come now, that his hour had struck, that following his father, he too was about to show himself brave, intrepid, bold, to run to meet the bullets, to offer his breast to bayonets, to shed his blood, to seek the enemy, to seek death, that he was about to wage war in his turn and descend to the field of battle, and that the field of battle upon which he was to descend was the street, and that the war in which he was about to engage was civil war!

He beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before him, and into this he was about to fall. Then he shuddered.

He thought of his father's sword, which his grandfather had sold to a second-hand dealer, and which he had so mournfully regretted. He said to himself that that chaste and valiant sword had done well to escape from him, and to depart in wrath into the gloom; that if it had thus fled, it was because it was intelligent and because it had foreseen the future; that it had had a presentiment of this rebellion, the war of the gutters, the war of the pavements, fusillades through cellar-windows, blows given and received in the rear; it was because, coming from Marengo and Friedland, it did not wish to go to the Rue de la Chanvrerie; it was because, after what it had done with the father, it did not wish to do this for the son! He told himself that if that sword were there, if after taking possession of it at his father's pillow, he had dared to take it and carry it off for this combat of darkness between Frenchmen in the streets, it would assuredly have scorched his hands and burst out aflame before his eyes, like the sword of the angel! He told himself that it was fortunate that it was not there and that it had disappeared, that that was well, that that was just, that his grandfather had been the true guardian of his father's glory, and that it was far better that the colonel's sword should be sold at auction, sold to the old-clothes man, thrown among the old junk, than that it should, to-day, wound the side of his country.

And then he fell to weeping bitterly.

This was horrible. But what was he to do? Live without Cosette he could not. Since she was gone, he must needs die. Had he not given her his word of honor that he would die? She had gone knowing that; this meant that it pleased her that Marius should die. And then, it was clear that she no longer loved him, since she had departed thus without warning, without a word, without a letter, although she knew his address! What was the good of living, and why should he live now? And then, what! Should he retreat after going so far? Should he flee from danger after having approached it? Should he slip away after having come and peeped into the barricade? Slip away, all in a tremble, saying: "After all, I have had enough of it as it is. I have seen it, that suffices, this is civil war, and I shall take my leave!" Should he abandon his friends who were expecting him? Who were in need of him possibly! Who were a mere handful against an army! Should he be untrue at once to his love, to country, to his word? Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of patriotism? But this was impossible, and if the phantom of his father was there in the gloom, and beheld him retreating, he would beat him on the loins with the flat of his sword, and shout to him: "March on, you poltroon!"

Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped his head.

All at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had just been effected in his mind. There is a widening of the sphere of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see clearly to be near death. The vision of the action into which he felt that he was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more as lamentable, but as superb. The war of the street was suddenly transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before the eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interrogation points of revery recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him. He left none of them unanswered.

Let us see, why should his father be indignant? Are there not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? What was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat which was about to begin? It is no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert; it is something quite different. The question is no longer one of sacred territory,--but of a holy idea. The country wails, that may be, but humanity applauds. But is it true that the country does wail? France bleeds, but liberty smiles; and in the presence of liberty's smile, France forgets her wound. And then if we look at things from a still more lofty point of view, why do we speak of civil war?

Civil war--what does that mean? Is there a foreign war? Is not all war between men war between brothers? War is qualified only by its object. There is no such thing as foreign or civil war; there is only just and unjust war. Until that day when the grand human agreement is concluded, war, that at least which is the effort of the future, which is hastening on against the past, which is lagging in the rear, may be necessary. What have we to reproach that war with? War does not become a disgrace, the sword does not become a disgrace, except when it is used for assassinating the right, progress, reason, civilization, truth. Then war, whether foreign or civil, is iniquitous; it is called crime. Outside the pale of that holy thing, justice, by what right does one form of man despise another? By what right should the sword of Washington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins? Leonidas against the stranger, Timoleon against the tyrant, which is the greater? The one is the defender, the other the liberator. Shall we brand every appeal to arms within a city's limits without taking the object into a consideration? Then note the infamy of Brutus, Marcel, Arnould von Blankenheim, Coligny, Hedgerow war? War of the streets? Why not? That was the war of Ambiorix, of Artevelde, of Marnix, of Pelagius. But Ambiorix fought against Rome, Artevelde against France, Marnix against Spain, Pelagius against the Moors; all against the foreigner. Well, the monarchy is a foreigner; oppression is a stranger; the right divine is a stranger. Despotism violates the moral frontier, an invasion violates the geographical frontier. Driving out the tyrant or driving out the English, in both cases, regaining possession of one's own territory. There comes an hour when protestation no longer suffices; after philosophy, action is required; live force finishes what the idea has sketched out; Prometheus chained begins, Arostogeiton ends; the encyclopedia enlightens souls, the 10th of August electrifies them. After AEschylus, Thrasybulus; after Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a tendency to accept the master. Their mass bears witness to apathy. A crowd is easily led as a whole to obedience. Men must be stirred up, pushed on, treated roughly by the very benefit of their deliverance, their eyes must be wounded by the true, light must be hurled at them in terrible handfuls. They must be a little thunderstruck themselves at their own well-being; this dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity of tocsins and wars. Great combatants must rise, must enlighten nations with audacity, and shake up that sad humanity which is covered with gloom by the right divine, Caesarian glory, force, fanaticism, irresponsible power, and absolute majesty; a rabble stupidly occupied in the contemplation, in their twilight splendor, of these sombre triumphs of the night. Down with the tyrant! Of whom are you speaking? Do you call Louis Philippe the tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI. Both of them are what history is in the habit of calling good kings; but principles are not to be parcelled out, the logic of the true is rectilinear, the peculiarity of truth is that it lacks complaisance; no concessions, then; all encroachments on man should be repressed. There is a divine right in Louis XVI., there is because a Bourbon in Louis Philippe; both represent in a certain measure the confiscation of right, and, in order to clear away universal insurrection, they must be combated; it must be done, France being always the one to begin. When the master falls in France, he falls everywhere. In short, what cause is more just, and consequently, what war is greater, than that which re-establishes social truth, restores her throne to liberty, restores the people to the people, restores sovereignty to man, replaces the purple on the head of France, restores equity and reason in their plenitude, suppresses every germ of antagonism by restoring each one to himself, annihilates the obstacle which royalty presents to the whole immense universal concord, and places the human race once more on a level with the right? These wars build up peace. An enormous fortress of prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses, violences, iniquities, and darkness still stands erect in this world, with its towers of hatred. It must be cast down. This monstrous mass must be made to crumble. To conquer at Austerlitz is grand; to take the Bastille is immense.

There is no one who has not noticed it in his own case--the soul,-- and therein lies the marvel of its unity complicated with ubiquity, has a strange aptitude for reasoning almost coldly in the most violent extremities, and it often happens that heartbroken passion and profound despair in the very agony of their blackest monologues, treat subjects and discuss theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the thread of the syllogism floats, without breaking, in the mournful storm of thought. This was the situation of Marius' mind.

As he meditated thus, dejected but resolute, hesitating in every direction, and, in short, shuddering at what he was about to do, his glance strayed to the interior of the barricade. The insurgents were here conversing in a low voice, without moving, and there was perceptible that quasi-silence which marks the last stage of expectation. Overhead, at the small window in the third story Marius descried a sort of spectator who appeared to him to be singularly attentive. This was the porter who had been killed by Le Cabuc. Below, by the lights of the torch, which was thrust between the paving-stones, this head could be vaguely distinguished. Nothing could be stranger, in that sombre and uncertain gleam, than that livid, motionless, astonished face, with its bristling hair, its eyes fixed and staring, and its yawning mouth, bent over the street in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said that the man who was dead was surveying those who were about to die. A long trail of blood which had flowed from that head, descended in reddish threads from the window to the height of the first floor, where it stopped.

马吕斯走到了菜市场。

这里和附近的那些街道比起来是更清静，更黑暗，更没有人的活动。从坟墓中钻出来的那种冰冷的宁静气氛好象已散漫在地面上。

一团红光把那排从圣厄斯塔什方面挡住麻厂街高楼的屋脊托映在黑暗的天空，这是燃烧在科林斯街垒里的那个火炬的反光。马吕斯朝红光走去。红光把他引到了甜菜市场。他隐隐看见布道修士街的黑暗街口。他走了进去。起义的哨兵守在街的另一头，没有看见他。他觉得他已经很接近他要找的地方了。他踮着脚往前走。我们记得，安灼拉曾把蒙德都巷①的一小段留作通往外面的唯一通道。马吕斯现在到达的地方正在进入这一小段蒙德都巷的转角处。

①蒙德都巷，即前面提到的蒙德都街，因街道迂回曲折狭窄，故作者有时则称之为巷。在第五部街垒战时，作者屡次称之为巷，实即指同一条街。天鹅街等有时称巷也是基于这一认识。

在这巷子和麻厂街交接的地方一片漆黑，他自己也是隐在黑影中的。他看见前面稍远一点的石块路面上有点微光，看见酒店的一角和酒店后面一个纸灯笼在一道不成形的墙里眨着眼，还有一伙人蹲在地上，膝上横着步枪。这一切和他相距只十脱阿斯。这是那街垒的内部。

巷子右侧的那些房屋挡着他，使他望不见酒店的其余部分、大街垒和旗帜。

马吕斯只须再多走一步了。

这时这个苦恼的青年坐在一块墙角石上，手臂交叉，想起了他的父亲。

他想到那英勇的彭眉胥上校是个多么杰出的军人，他在共和时期捍卫了法国的国境，在皇帝的率领下到过亚洲的边界，他见过热那亚、亚历山大、米兰、都灵、马德里、维也纳、德累斯顿、柏林、莫斯科，他在欧洲每一个战果辉煌的战场上都洒过他的鲜血，也就是在马吕斯血管里流着的血，他一生维护军纪，指挥作战，未到老年便已头发斑白，他腰扣武装带，肩章穗子飘落到胸前，硝烟熏黑了帽徽，额头给铁盔压出了皱纹，生活在板棚、营地、帐幕、战地医疗站里，东征西讨二十年，回到家乡脸上挂一条大伤疤，笑容满面，平易安详，人人敬佩，为人淳朴如儿童，他向法兰西献出了一切，丝毫没有辜负祖国的地方。

他又想，现在轮到他自己了，他自己的时刻已经到了，他应当步他父亲的后尘，做个勇敢、无畏、大胆冒枪弹、挺胸迎刺刀、洒鲜血、歼敌人、不顾生死、奔赴战场、敢于拼杀的人。他想到他要去的战场是街巷，他要参加的战斗是内战。

想到内战，他好象看见了一个地洞，在他面前张着大嘴，而他会掉到那里去。

这时他打了一个寒噤。

他想起他父亲的那把剑，竟被他外祖父卖给了旧货贩子，他平时想到这事，便感到痛心，现在他却对自己说，这把英勇坚贞的剑宁肯饮恨潜藏于黑暗中也不愿落到他的手里是对的，它这样遁迹避世，是因为它有智慧，有先见之明，它预知这次暴动，这种水沟边的战争，街巷中的战争，地窖通风口的射击，来自背后和由背承担的毒手，是因为它是从马伦哥和弗里德兰回来的，不愿到麻厂街去，它不愿跟着儿子去干它曾跟着老子干过的事！他对自己说这把剑，要是在这儿，要是当初在他父亲去世的榻前他接受了这把剑，今天他也敢于把它握在手中，它一定会烫他的手，象天使的神剑那样，在他面前发出熊熊烈焰！他对自己说幸而它不在，幸亏它已失踪，这是好事，这是公道的，他的外祖父真正保卫了他父亲的荣誉，宁可让人家把上校的这把剑拍卖掉，落在一个旧货商手里，丢在废铁堆里，总比用它来使祖国流血强些。

接着他痛哭起来。

这太可怕了。但是怎么办呢？失去了珂赛特，仍旧活下去，这是他办不到的。她既然走了，他便只有一死。他不是已向她宣过誓，说他会死的吗？她明明知道这点，却又走了，那就是说，她存心不问马吕斯的死活了。并且，她事先没有告诉马吕斯，也没有留下一句话，她不是不知道马吕斯的住址，却没有写一封信，便这样走了。足见她已不再爱马吕斯了。现在他又何必再活下去呢？为什么还要活下去呢？并且，怎么说！已经到了此地，又退缩！已经走向危险，又逃走！已经看到街垒里的情形，又闪开！一面发抖，一面闪开，说什么：“确实，我已经受够了，我已经看清楚，看够了，这是内战，我走开好！”把等待着他的那些朋友丢下不管！他们也许正需要他！他们是以一小撮对付一支军队！丢掉爱情，丢掉朋友，自己说话不算数，一切全放弃不顾！以爱国为借口来掩饰自己的畏惧！但是，这样是说不过去的，他父亲的幽灵，如果这时正在他身边的黑暗中，看见他往后退缩，也一定会用他那把剑的剑脊抽他的腰，并向他吼道：“上，胆小鬼！”

被他的思潮起伏所苦恼，他的头慢慢低下去了。

他又忽然抬起了头。精神上刚起一种极为壮观的矫正，有了墓边人所特有的那种思想膨胀，接近死亡能使人眼睛明亮。对将采取的行动他也许正看到一种幻象，不是更为悲惨而是极其辉煌的幻象。街垒战，不知由于灵魂的一种什么内在作用，在他思想的视力前忽然变了样。他梦幻中的一大堆喧嚣纷扰的问号一齐回到他的脑子里，但并没有使他烦乱。他一一作出解答。

想一想，他父亲为什么会发怒？难道某种情况不会让起义上升到天职的庄严高度吗？对上校彭眉胥的儿子来说，他如果参加目前的战斗，会有什么东西降低他的身分呢？这已不是蒙米赖或尚波贝尔①，而是另外一回事。这里并不涉及神圣的领土问题，而是一个崇高的理想问题。祖国受苦，固然是的，但是人类在欢呼。并且祖国是不是真正会受苦呢？法兰西流血，而自由在微笑，在自由的微笑面前法兰西将忘却她的创伤。况且，如果从更高的角度来看，人们对内战究竟会说些什么呢？

①蒙米赖（Montmirail）、尚波贝尔（Champaubert）两地都在法国东部，一八一四年，拿破仑在这两处曾挫败俄普联军的进犯。

内战？这意味着什么？难道还有一种外战吗？人与人之间的战争，不都是兄弟之间的战争吗？战争的性质只取决于它的目的。无所谓外战，也无所谓内战。战争只有非正义的与正义的之分。在人类还没有进入大同世界的日子里，战争，至少是急速前进的未来反对原地踏步的过去的那种战争，也许是必要的。对于这样的战争有什么可谴责的呢？仅仅是在用以扼杀人权、进步、理智、文明、真理时战争才是耻辱，剑也才是凶器。内战或外战，都可以是不义的，都可以称之为犯罪。除了用正义这条神圣的标准去衡量以外，人们便没有依据以战争的一种形式去贬斥它的另一种形式。华盛顿的剑有什么权利来否认卡米尔·德穆兰的长矛？莱翁尼达斯反抗外族，蒂莫莱翁①反抗暴君，谁更伟大呢？一个是捍卫者，另一个是解救者。人能不问目的便诬蔑城市内部的任何武装反抗吗？那么，布鲁图斯、马塞尔②、阿尔努·德·布兰肯海姆③、科里尼，你都可以称为歹徒了。丛林战吗？巷战吗？为什么不可以呢？这便是昂比奥里克斯④、阿尔特维尔德⑤、马尔尼克斯⑥、佩拉热⑦所进行的战争。但是，昂比奥里克斯是为反抗罗马而战，阿尔特维尔德是为反抗法国而战，马尔尼克斯是为反抗西班牙而战，佩拉热是为反抗摩尔人而战，他们全是为了反抗外族而战的。

①蒂莫莱翁（Timoléon，前410?36），希腊政治家，推崇法治。

②马塞尔（Marcel），十四世纪巴黎市长，曾为限制王权而斗争。

③阿尔努·德·布兰肯海姆（Arnould　de　Blankenheim），不详。

④昂比奥里克斯（Ambiorix），古高卢国王，前五四年曾反对恺撒，失败。

⑤阿尔特维尔德（Artevelde），十五世纪比利时根特行政长官。

⑥马尔尼克斯（Marnix），十六世纪反对西班牙统治的佛兰德人民起义领袖。

⑦佩拉热（Pélage），八世纪西班牙境内阿斯图里亚斯国王，反对阿拉伯人入侵。

好吧，君主制也就是外族，压迫也就是外族，神权也就是外族。专制制度侵犯精神的疆界，正如武力侵犯地理的疆界。驱逐暴君或驱逐英国人，都一样是为了收复国土。有时抗议是不中用的，谈了哲学之后还得有行动；理论开路，暴力完工；被缚的普罗米修斯开场，阿利斯托吉通结尾。百科全书启发灵魂，八月十日为灵魂充电。埃斯库罗斯之后得有特拉西布尔①，狄德罗之后得有丹东。人民大众有顺从主子的倾向，民间笼罩着暮气，群众易于向权贵低头。应当鼓动这些人，推搡他们，用解救自身的利益鞭策他们，用真理的光去刺他们的眼睛，用大量骇人的光明，大把大把地投向他们。他们应当为自身的利益而多少受些雷击，电光能惊醒他们。因而就有必要敲响警钟，进行战斗。应当有伟大的战士纷纷冒出来，以他们的大无畏精神为各族人民的表率，把这可叹的人类，一味浑浑噩噩欣赏落日残晖留恋苍茫暮色的众生，从神权、武功、暴力、信仰狂、不负责任的政权和专制君王的黑暗中拯救出来。打倒暴君！什么？你指的是谁啊？你把路易－菲力浦称为暴君吗？不是，他不见得比路易十六更暴些。他们两个都是历史上一惯称为好国王的。原则不容阉割，真实的逻辑是直线条的，真理的本质不能随意取舍，因此，没有让步的余地，任何对人的侵犯都应当镇压下去，路易十六身上有神权，路易－菲力浦身上有波旁的血统，两人都在某种程度上负有践踏人权的责任，为了全部清除对权力的篡窃行为，必须把他们打倒，必须这样，因为法国历来开山劈路。法国的主子垮台之日，也就是其他主子纷纷落地之时。总之，树立社会的真理，恢复自由的统帅地位，把人民还给人民，把主权还给老百姓，把紫金冠重新戴在法兰西的头上，重新发挥理智和平等的全部力量，在各人自主的基础上消灭一切仇恨的根源，彻底摧毁君主制设置在通往大同世界大道上的障碍，用法律划一全人类的地位，还有什么事业比这更正义的呢？也就是说，还有什么战争比这更伟大的呢？这样的战争才导致和平。目前还有一座由成见、特权、迷信、虚伪、勒索、滥取、强暴、欺凌、黑暗所构成的巨大堡垒屹立在地球上，高耸着它的无数个仇楼恨塔。必须把它摧毁。必须把这个庞然怪物夷为平地。在奥斯特里茨克敌制胜固然伟大，攻占巴士底更是无与伦比。

①特拉西布尔（Thrasybule），公元前五世纪希腊将军，结束希腊三十年专制制度，恢复民主。

谁都有过这样切身的体会：灵魂具有这样一种奇特的性能，这也正说明它既存在于个体而又充塞虚空的妙用，它能使处于绝境的人在最激动的时刻几乎仍能冷静地思考问题，激剧的懊丧和沉痛的绝望在自问自答而难于辩解的苦恼中，也常能进行分析和研讨论题。紊乱的思路中杂有逻辑，推理的线索飘荡于思想的凄风苦雨中而不断裂。这正是马吕斯当时的精神状态。

他心情颓丧，不过有了信心，然而仍在迟疑不决，总之，想到他将采取的行动仍不免胆战心惊，他一面思前想后，一面望着街垒里面。起义的人正在那里低声谈话，没人走动，这种半沉寂状态使人感到已经到了等待的最后时刻了。马吕斯发现在他们上方四层楼上的一个窗子边，有个人在望着下面，他想那也许是个什么人在窥探情况，这人聚精会神的样子好不奇怪。那是被勒·卡布克杀害的看门老头。从下面望去，单凭那围在石块中间的火炬的光是看不清那人头的。一张露着惊骇神情的灰白脸，纹丝不动，头发散乱，眼睛定定地睁着，嘴半开，对着街心伏在窗口，象看热闹似的，这形象出现在那暗淡摇曳的火光中，确是没有比这更奇特的了。不妨说这是死了的人在望着将死的人。那头里流出的血有如一长条红线，自窗口直淌到二楼才凝止住。